


Unrequited

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Love, M/M, Romance, Unrequited Love, handjobs, i have no idea what to write here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could never love him. They're too much of the same. Too broken to make a whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unrequited

He doesn't love him. Not really. Not ever.

Especially not when they're like this, tangled together. Bodies sweaty and sticky. Pulses racing. Mouths open, moaning, panting –  
No, he doesn't love him.  
He could never love him. They're too much of the same. Too broken to make a whole.  
"Admit it." He says, though it comes out like a whimper, Sherlock's touching him just there, making him see stars.  
"Admit it; I'm the only one that can make you feel this. Make you come."  
Sherlock doesn't answer and instead just thrusts into him harder, rougher.  
Moriarty knows exactly how to push his buttons, and make him come undone.  
"Come on, Sherlock, moan for me. Scream my name."  
Moriarty would give anything to hear Sherlock scream his name like that, right now, with him inside him. But Sherlock never has, and Sherlock never will, because Sherlock doesn't love him.

Neither knows when their partnership took place. Sherlock would have you believe that it was after their second meeting, which started as a Texas showdown, morphed into a savage wrestling match, and ended in a brutal, primal fuck.  
Sherlock would also like you to believe it happened because of chemicals, because of hormones and because of boredom.

However, it's not like that for Moriarty.

For him, this started long before the actual romp. It started when he first caught wind of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, the man with the fierce intelligence and ego to match.  
For Moriarty, it began when he sent him his first little puzzle. A poisoned pen, a missing dolphin and an out of place painting.  
The sex was just the aftermath of the fascination for Moriarty, it wasn't what he wanted, but it was what he ended up with.

They don't actually communicate. They get into each other's head, they fuck with each other, they fuck, but they don't actually talk.  
Though, that doesn't stop Moriarty from trying.  
He sends Sherlock texts every single day.

The ducks are taking flight.  
Guess where I am.  
JM.

You're wearing pink socks today,  
mixed up our washing, have you?  
JM.

You're thinking about me.  
lying on your bed, completely  
nude. You're fingering me open,  
so that I can take you in. You're  
using spit to lube me up, because  
You don't think I deserve the actual  
thing. You weren't thinking about me?  
Well, now you are.  
JM.

Each and every message goes unanswered.

"Tell me you love me." Moriarty pants as Sherlock shoves him violently against the wallpapered wall.  
He doesn't reply but clashes his lips with Moriarty's and it's all tongue, and teeth and hot, searing, want.  
"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sher-" He stops talking and gasps, Sherlock's touching him. Sherlock's never done that.  
It doesn't take Moriarty more than five strong, sure strokes of Sherlock's fisted hand before he's spilling onto his callused fingers.  
As he's trying to compose himself enough to reciprocate Sherlock's actions, Sherlock does something else he's never done before.  
He places a simple kiss on Moriarty's left temple. It's so left of field of what their usual couplings are like, it's so gentle, so innocent, it could be mistaken as actual affection, and, stupidly, that's what Moriarty takes it has.

Affection.

It's almost as good as Sherlock actually saying those three little words to him.

When Moriarty finds that a Doctor John Hamish Watson has limped his way into Sherlock's life, and bed, he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to feel.  
Anger rips through him.  
So does betrayal.  
And jealousy.  
Especially jealousy.

He doesn't know what to do.

Why him? What makes him so special?  
JM

I bet you can't come the way you do with  
me when you're fucking him.  
JM

You'll regret choosing him over me.  
JM

He wishes that John never got involved. He knows he doesn't deserve what his doing to him, that there was no way for John to realise that Moriarty loves Sherlock. But Sherlock has to learn to love what he's already got.

And so, that why this is happening.

That's why Moriarty is standing over Doctor Watson's limp, unconscious body.  
That's why Doctor Watson's face is so swollen up that even his own parents would fail to identify him on the cold morgue slab.  
That's why there are over twenty different broken bones in Doctor Watson's body. Some even breaking skin.  
And the blood. There's a lot of that everywhere.  
Moriarty pulls out his phone and takes a photo of the mess that was Doctor Watson, and types a message.

Guess who this was.  
JM

He presses send.

-End-

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this over on fanfiction.net, decided to post it here as well.


End file.
